


overtime

by doxian



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Office, Boss/Employee Relationship, Clothing Kink, M/M, Scent Kink, Sharing Clothes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, UshiShira Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian
Summary: Ushijima lends Shirabu one of his shirts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [written for ushishira week, day 3 - clothes](http://ushishiraweek.tumblr.com/post/156921117867/ushishira-week-day-3-were-accepting-all)

"Thank you for lending me your clothes, Ushijima-san, but I think I'll just use the T-shirt if you don't mind."

Ushijima turns from the washbasin in his en suite bathroom to find Shirabu standing in the doorway, wearing his boxers and one of Ushijima's shirts. Ushijima's pair of pajama pants are folded neatly in his hands.

"They kept falling down even after I pulled the drawstring," Shirabu continues. A wry, funny little smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he's sharing some in-joke with himself that Ushijima isn't privy to.

"Oh," says Ushijima, his hands frozen in the position of being just about to squeeze some toothpaste onto his toothbrush. He's distracted by how his plain white T-shirt hangs off of Shirabu several sizes too big, making him look smaller than he really is. The shoulder seams don't sit right, either, falling at Shirabu's upper arms just above his biceps.

"No, I don't mind."

Ushijima sets down his toothbrush and toothpaste so that he can take the pants from Shirabu, stepping past him into his bedroom without looking at him. He puts the piece of clothing away in a drawer in his closet.

"Remember that you have that meeting with Watanabe-san first thing in the morning," Shirabu is saying. Ushijima straightens and faces him just in time to catch that little smile, again, the pledge of a magic trick shown to the audience for a second before being whisked away behind a curtain. "Ah, but we aren't working right now. Apologies."

Ushijima shrugs. Both of them have been known to burn the midnight oil before, sometimes even here at Ushijima's apartment since Shirabu, as Ushijima's personal assistant, works more closely alongside him than most of Ushijima's other employees. Admittedly, most of the time Shirabu isn't here because their team had stayed out too late drinking, making Shirabu miss his last train home for the evening. They'd closed an important deal that day. As head of the department and as the son of the company's owner, Ushijima was practically obligated to buy everyone drinks until they were all barely standing in spite of having very little interest in the activity himself.

"I'll put your shirt in the laundry," Ushijima says, "but the housekeeper won't have it ready until the day after tomorrow." Goshiki, one of his newer, more overzealous employees, had been drinking colourful, fruity cocktails all night, the last of which had ended up splashed down the front of Shirabu's pristine white shirt.

"That's fine. It just means I'll have to borrow this to go home in the morning and change before work." Shirabu tugs at the hem of the T-shirt. "Thank you for getting it cleaned for me."

"It's not a problem," Ushijima says levelly, the thought of Shirabu wearing his clothes in public sending an unexpected spark dancing over his skin. "Is there anything else you need?"

Shirabu's gaze drags lingeringly over Ushijima's body, so subtly that Ushijima almost misses it. And then Shirabu is meeting his eyes again, ever-professional. "Not for now, no. Good night, Ushijima-san."

Ushijima echoes the good night, watches Shirabu's retreating back disappear into the corridor.

After he finishes up with the rest of his nightly routine, he heads into the laundry room.

Shirabu's shirt is draped over the edge of the laundry basket. He'd tried to wash the spilled drink off as best he could in the bar, but the wide streak of orange still bleeds bright and eye-catching down the front of it.

Ushijima takes the garment in his hands. He smooths his fingers over the soft, sleek material - a far cry from the plain cotton Shirabu was wearing when he'd first gotten the job - and then he's bringing it to his face and inhaling. There's the smokiness of the bar and the overwhelming tang of artificial fruit, but underneath that is the barest hint of soap, the bite of cologne. Ushijima inhales deeper, chasing the smells, trying to get a better sense of them.

It's then that he realizes the picture he must make: his face buried in his subordinate's soiled clothing while the same subordinate drifts off to sleep only a short distance away.

He loosens his grasp, letting the shirt fall into the basket on top of the pile of other dirty clothes. He's kept awake that night by the remembered scent of cheap drugstore shampoo.


End file.
